


what you are picks its way

by giucorreias



Series: walking the walk of dreams [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, M/M, Vampires, Werewolves, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 23:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giucorreias/pseuds/giucorreias
Summary: When Mary dies, Neil becomes nothing. Then he makes a deal with Andrew.





	what you are picks its way

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter has been sitting on my wip folder for a while, but I realized it's good enough for me to post it. I have only a vague idea of where I want to take this, so we'll figure things out as we go. Also, fair warning, I'm a very slow writer, so god knows when I'll post the next chapter. Proceed at your own risk.
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you guys like it.

It’s early afternoon when Neil arrives—by foot—on the little town of Foxhole Haven. It’s exactly what he had been expecting: small, painted buildings, happy people… flowers everywhere. He and his mother had talked about coming here and settling down, back before she died—back before they  _ killed _ her. 

Almost an year later, after drifting aimlessly from city to city, here he is.

  
  


He walks towards the town square, and from there it isn’t hard to figure out where to go: there’s a huge sign pointing to the local inn. It’s a pretty building, two story-tall with painted bricks and a beaded curtain for a door. Neil steps through the wards that barely barely even brush against him and gets in.

The inside is inviting: colorful drapery, flower vases, a couple of sofas with frilly cushions. There’s a tall, smiling man behind a wooden counter, currently distracted with a particular flower that refuses to stand upright in the vase beside him. Neil notices the track marks first, the name tag second, the way his eyes light up as he notices a newcomer third.

“Hi, welcome to the Fox Den, how may I help you?” It doesn’t sound rehearsed, like Neil has come to expect from people working with the public, and that surprises him.

“Uh,” Neil considers a sarcastic answer and discards it, instead approaching the counter. “A room, please?”

“I haven’t seen you here before,” the man—Matt—says as he takes a big, old book from somewhere under the counter and sets it over it. The book opens, on its own, exactly on the right page. Matt already has his pen ready.

Neil shrugs. He knows it’s a prompt for more information, but he isn’t willing to give any. He could lie. He could even offer him half-truths, if he wanted to. He doesn’t. He’s exhausted. He settles with:  “I haven’t been here before.”

Matt laughs. It’s amused and open, and it makes Neil instantly uncomfortable. Good people are always the most dangerous, because they pay attention. “I’ll need your name, your age and your length of stay.”

Neil hesitates. He gives Matt his fake ID and when the man asks again for his length of stay, he just shrugs. Matt’s smile, this time, is benevolent—knowing.

“You can pay me for a week,” he says. “And if you need more time, we can extend it. How does that sound?”

Neil nods. He takes the exact amount of money he needs from out of his duffel bag—keeping its insides out of view just in case—then slides it over the counter, towards Matt’s hands.  

“Alright, Mr. Josten—here’s the key, please don’t lose it.”

Neil nods again. The key is warm against his hand, which is odd since it’s metal. No matter. He puts it on his pocket and walks away. “I won’t.”

  
  


Neil sleeps. He sleeps for too long and too well, and he wakes up on the too big bed feeling oddly empty. He misses the familiar weight of his mother’s too hot body laying next to him in bed, the harsh lines of her face present even in sleep. He misses the smell of her—cheap perfume and cigarette smoke—, and the way she’d press her nose against his neck, slide her hand over his cheeks so he’d smell the same.

He misses the way she’d wrap herself around him, hands and arms and legs, even after he was too big to fit in the craddle of her body anymore. He misses going to sleep with his hand buried on her fur, her head resting on his stomach as she kept watch during the full moon.

It’s the full moon. 

The room is on the second floor, which isn’t ideal if he ever needs to run away, and the window’s open (he can’t believe he slept with the window opened). The wind ruffles the curtains, the sky is dark, and the full moon stares at him, mocking his loneliness. He never thought he’d miss his mother’s overbearing protectiveness during the full moon and yet here he is, unwilling to get up, unwilling to go back to sleep, too empty even to cry.

His stomach rumbles.

He sighs, and he ignores it, and he keeps ignoring it until a cloud covers the moon, darkness descends upon the room, and he feels stupid for letting himself wallow. Mary didn’t give her life away so he’d starve himself to death. If she were alive, she’d slap him out of it in no time.

He gets up.

  
  


He doesn’t exactly know what time it is when he walks up to the street huddled inside his oversized, grey hoodie. There’s a note on the reception counter saying that the kitchen isn’t working, today, though the inn’s door is wide open—the bead strings swaying gently under the night’s breeze.

He wanders aimlessly for a while, noting the shape of the buildings and which streets lead where, saving the information for later if he needs it. Most establishments are closed, doors shut and lights turned off, but he walks past an open dinner—Sweetie’s, the plaque says—and decides to get in.

It’s rustic and old-fashioned—big, angular tables joined together. Standing on the threshold, Neil takes note of the people, as he always does: their faces, their clothes, the way they’re sitting and talking. Most are content to prop their elbows on their tables and gesture their hands around, carefree. That’s good. It means there aren’t any hunters around, and there haven’t been for a long time.

He takes a step inside, face turned towards the counter, thoughts already on what he is going to eat. 

That’s when he hears a vaguely familiar voice.

“Nathaniel?!”

Neil turns to face the voice, hand on the dagger he keeps sewn on the inside of his hoodie. On the milliseconds he takes to turn his face around and towards the new threat, his mind goes through many possibilities, none of which are  _ Kevin Day _ .

He isn’t surprised he didn’t recognize Kevin: the guy is paler, his hair is the wrong color and his characteristic number two tattoo isn’t there, perhaps hidden by some sort of make up. Neil plays with the dagger on the inside of his hoodie, prepared to perhaps run—though if Kevin has a gun hidden on his person, he won’t be able to go very far. 

Kevin is the best supernatural hunter he has ever met, even better than Riko Moriyama, despite what their tattoos might lead one to believe.  

“Kevin,” he sighs.

Kevin takes a step towards him, and Neil takes a step back. Kevin frowns, visibly. He raises both his hands, on an universal peace sign, and it takes Neil a whole minute to realize he isn’t going to be attacked.

“I thought you were dead,” Kevin says. At this point, the whole dinner is watching the two of them. Neil doesn’t like being on the spotlight, and he has to force himself not to drop his shoulders or make himself look smaller. “I- how are you still alive?”

Neil shrugs. He takes another step back, eyes turning towards the street. He still remembers the way to the inn, has catalogued the streets on his mind, though he knows that if Kevin has been here for a while he can probably get there first, lay a trap. 

He’s considering leaving his duffle bag behind, when Kevin says:

“Wait.” Neil turns back to him, eyes wide and heart beating fast. He isn’t planning on waiting, but Kevin—very, very slowly, as if any brash movement might spook him (and it  _ might _ )—hooks a finger on the collar of his shirt, and slides it down until it’s visible: a  **_bite_ ** . “I’m one of them, too.”

Neil has to take a step inside, curiosity piqued (and hasn’t this always been his  _ weakness _ ?). He can almost hear Mary’s voice berating him for it, but it’s drowned under the dozens of questions bubbling up on his brain. Kevin is too careful, he’d never let himself be caught by vampires like that.

“How?” he asks, he has to ask. His mind is already trying to work out the implications.

Instead of answering, Kevin nods towards the table he had been sitting at. “Why don’t you come and join us?”

  
  


There are two people sitting on Kevin’s table: a short, blond guy who looks annoyed at the world in general and a taller, dark-haired one who looks way too excited at Neil’s mere presence. As soon as they approach, the dark-haired one offers Neil his hand.

“Hi! Nathaniel wasn’t it? I’m Nicky!” He has a huge smile and is blinking so much that Neil wonders if he is drunk. He might be, if the way he sways towards Neil as he sits is any indication.

“I go by Neil, actually,” he says, instead of showing his teeth like he wants to, a habit he piqued from his mother. Just hearing someone say  _ Nathaniel _ is making the hairs of his neck stand out.

Oblivious to the way he’s making Neil feel, Nicky keeps talking.

“Neil! What a wonderful name. Can I just say it is an absolute  _ pleasure _ to meet you.” At this, the blond guy lets out a disgusted noise. Neil turns looks at him in time to see him roll his eyes. Nicky continues: “This killjoy sitting beside me is my cousin Aaron. Don’t let his personality bother you.”

“I won’t,” Neil nods, completely serious, then promptly ignores the two of them. “How?” he repeats his question, tapping his own neck twice, indicating the bite. 

Kevin shrugs.

“You know, the usual. Got in way over my head. Riko refused to leave if we didn’t kill every last vampire on the nest. I got bit.”

“Is he-” Neil starts to ask, but stops himself when Nicky shakes his head. Kevin downs a shot of his beer, fills the glass, downs another one. He opens his mouth to say something, changes his mind, then downs yet another. He sighs, staring mournfully at the bottle.

“Dead?” he asks, voice low. “No. No, he’s not. Not even turned, the bastard.” He doesn’t bother with filling his glass, this time, and drinks straight from the bottle. “Some people are lucky like that.”

He offers Neil the bottle, but Neil shakes his head—he doesn’t like getting drunk. Kevin shrugs, drinks from it again. When the bottle is empty, he taps on the bottom so he gets every last drop. Neil doesn’t understand the appeal, but he can understand doing something just for the memories (his hand seeks the pack of cigarettes he keeps on his pocket, just to make sure they’re still there—he doesn’t smoke).

“It doesn’t really do anything,” he sighs. “Out of everything being a vampire took from me, I miss being drunk the most.”

Nicky snorts. “I think that’s our cue to take him back home—you don’t really want to hear him reminiscing about being alive. Enjoy your  _ night _ , Neil.” Nicky winks at him, before he starts pulling Kevin away. Kevin goes easily, getting up and letting himself get carried away.

“ _ Do you have to stick your paws into every single pretty face that comes into town? _ ” Neil still hears the blond—Aaron—complain, before the dinner’s door shuts and the wind no longer carry their voices inside.

Alone, now, he finally stops ignoring his rumbling stomach and asks for the food he wanted—he eats it. Before he leaves, he notices the phone number Nicky left behind on an unused napkin. 

He throws it away—even if he wanted to call him, which he doesn’t (why would he?), Neil doesn’t own a phone. 

He goes back to the inn.

  
  


Neil closes the door to the room, leans his weight against it, and considers his duffle bag—currently laying on the bed. 

There’s a heavy weight on his stomach that has nothing to do with the food he has just eaten and everything to do with his instincts telling him to take it and run, just leave and never come back, ignore the fact Kevin is a vampire now and has been safely living around here for a while (just because Kevin is safe, doesn’t mean he would be, too).

He knows what his mother would have to say about this—he  _ knows _ . She was always careful, always ruthless. She’d cut her losses and leave, Kevin be damned. But his mother, were she alive, would have had him—she’d always have him, she had never been alone.

Neil is tired of being alone.

He is tired of drifting, of having nowhere to go, of having no one to come back to. He is tired of merely  _ surviving _ , one day at a time, no future in sight, no plan for anything. He’s tired of being nothing, nameless, ageless, soulless. 

At least when he had his mother, he was her son ( _ he’s still her son? _ ). Now he’s just a stranger people sometimes wonder about.

He takes the duffle bag, throws it under the bed and kicks it the farther he can (out of sight, out of mind). He lays down. 

He dreams about his mother’s strong grip holding his wrist, urging him to run, the overpowering scent of smoke clouding any other sensations. He wakes up with a trail of wet tears on his face—on the pillow—and an overwhelming  _ need _ to scream scratching at his throat.

He swallows.

  
  


The receptionist—Matt—is already there when Neil climbs down the stairs to the first floor. Neil sees dark circles and paler skin, hair in disarray. It’s clear the man had a bad night’s sleep—or perhaps no sleep at all—, and yet he’s smiling softly at the dark-skinned woman standing just in front of him and leaning heavily against the counter, moving one hand around as she explains the logistics of a ritual circle.

Neil has to stop himself from gaping at how openly she’s talking about magic—the door’s wide open, as are the windows, and anyone walking on the street would be able to hear her voice. He grips the rail on the staircase, white knuckles, at which point Matt looks up and sees him. There’s still a smile on his face.

Neil thinks:  _ now his smile will disappear and he will pretend they were talking about something else _ —but that never happens. Matt waves excitedly and the woman turns: all they do is offer him breakfast.

  
  


“I’m sorry about last night,” Matt says. They’re in the kitchen—Matt hasn’t bothered setting up anything fancier, since Neil is currently the only lodger—and there’s a lot of food, more food than three humans could ever eat on their own.

They’re not all humans, Neil finds out. He had already guessed, but it is weird (and way too  _ dangerous _ ) how Matt simply confirms it with a nod and Dan just starts teasing him about the post full moon feast. Neil feels like he’s watching a disaster that is about to happen: at any moment, a hunter could find the town and murder everyone.  _ He _ could be the _ hunter _ . They don’t know him. They shouldn’t trust him.

Which is not to say he doesn’t enjoy being treated like a person.

“There aren’t many werewolves on Foxhole Haven,” Matt interrupts his thoughts, speaking as he slides a basket of fruit towards him. There are fruits there he has never seen before, and he has seen many things in life. He takes one, examines it, listens to the rest of what Matt is saying with half an ear as he peels what seems to be a bright yellow apple. “Just me, Andrew and Allison. Me and Allison sometimes run together but Andrew- you don’t want anything to do with him. He’s…  _ feral _ .”

This interests him. He looks up, eyebrows raised. He’s heard the stories on feral werewolves—he’s seen it happen dozens of times. Feral werewolves are vicious, wild things who have lost most of their human faculties and can’t recognize their own pack. 

His father used to keep a few locked in silver cages, displayed for everyone to see like trophies. Killing them would have been kinder, but his father doesn’t know the meaning of kindness.

“It takes a lot to turn a werewolf feral,” Neil comments. 

Matt shrugs, like it doesn’t matter to him. It might not, if he’s lived here his whole life. Somehow, he doesn’t think that’s it. “I don’t really know the specifics, and Andrew doesn’t talk.”

Neil nods, but doesn’t say anything even if his mind is working. He’s curious, now, and being curious has always been his biggest flaw. He finishes his fruit and takes a slice of the orange cake, hoping to distract himself. The woman—Dan—smiles at him and offers him more.

“It’s mostly witches here.” Matt continues on saying. “There’s a big, central coven and a couple of minor ones. Dan here is an earth witch, she’s very good. She’s responsible for the food we’re eating.” He sounds proud.

Dan is blushing as she elbows him. “Wymack helps.” 

Neil feels like there’s a joke he doesn’t get, but it doesn’t matter. Dan changes subjects, Matt going on a tangent about basketball, and suddenly they’re arguing statistics.

The breakfast lasts longer than it has any right to—whenever Neil is about to get up, Dan gives him another slice of cake, offers him another glass of juice. Neil isn’t hungry anymore, but for the first time in a long time, eating isn’t just about getting rid of his hunger.

Neil keeps nodding, convincing himself he’ll get up as he finishes this one, but then Matt tells a joke and barks a laugh, Neil looks up to bask on his happiness and Dan takes that as an opportunity to bring something else to the table.

  
  


Dan and Matt seem to be the rule—not the exception. Neil goes to the grocery store, and the cashier schools him in which stones to wear during the full moon. Neil goes for a run, and as he stops by the big statue of a burning witch on the town square—just to catch his breath—an old lady approaches him and teaches him how to figure out if he’s within the town boundaries (and therefore where it’s  _ safe _ ).

“I know it’s easy to forget about life when you’re out running—my John used to do the same, but the wards have a distinct feeling. You’ll become better attuned if you stick around. And the woods,” she says. “They’re not safe. Don’t go running around there unless you’re sure you don’t scare easily.”

Neil thanks her, awkward, unsure of how to react. The woman pats his cheek twice before wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders and walking away, the rhythmic sounds of her wooden cane tapping the floor alongside her footsteps.

Dan introduces him to the central coven: Abby and Wymack, Seth and Renee, her and Aaron. It’s not big—and not very cooperative, apparently—, but Wymack runs the town and the rest of them all help him out the best they can. Before the week ends, Neil has a job helping them out on the town’s huge vegetable garden and a standing invitation to join their meetings whenever he feels like it.

It’s the best he’s felt since… ever.

  
  


This is how it goes downhill (and it doesn’t surprise him that it does, good things never last): Kevin invites him out. It’s not a place Neil’s been before—which isn’t surprising, since he’s just arrived in town—, called Eden’s Twilight. It’s sleek and modern, which doesn’t really fit with the town’s aesthetics, but it’s something familiar: It’s a bar.

Kevin is already there when he arrives, sitting with Aaron (Nicky is nowhere in sight and, secretly, Neil is thankful for that). Aaron looks different: not physically so, but his posture is more bored than annoyed, when annoyance had seemed like his default setting, the previous time. Neil sits down, offers him a nod, then promptly ignores him in favor of Kevin.

“I wasn’t sure you were going to come,” Kevin says. There’s already a half-empty bottle on the table. “Are you going to drink with me today?”

Neil shakes his head. “I don’t drink.”

“Alcohol or anything?” Aaron asks. Neil turns to face him, frowning. There’s something not quite right with the way he’s holding himself perched over the chair, black armbands doing a bad job of hiding the red marks around his wrists.

“Alcohol,” he says. “Why?”

Aaron slides the soda can that had been laying beside him all the way through the table, towards Neil. Neil looks at it, opens it, takes a sip. It tastes weird.

“Here’s what I’ve been wondering,” Aaron says, pausing dramatically as Neil takes another sip. The weird taste lingers. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

Neil opens his mouth to answer him—to lie—and finds that he can’t. He glances towards Kevin, who is currently facing somewhere else, slowly drinking from his half-empty glass, and then towards Aaron again. There’s a knife resting on the table ( _ silver _ ), and Aaron’s eyes are tracking his movements. 

He still looks bored and that’s perhaps the scariest part.

Neil’s heart is beating fast, now, and he’s panicking, he’s panicking, he’s  _ panicking _ . He takes a deep breath, once, and as Aaron’s eyes are busy tracking the movement of his throat he slaps the knife away (it burns) and runs, chair falling heavily—Kevin’s bottle shattering against the floor.

Neil’s fast, but Aaron’s faster, somehow, and as he’s backed up against the brick wall (it smells dirty, and that’s somehow even more familiar), Aaron’s arm on his neck, he realizes why—sharp teeth and blood-red eyes, long claws—he’s a werewolf. This is  _ not _ Aaron. 

“ _ Oh, _ ” Neil finds himself gasping, almost against his own will. “Oh, you’re  _ Andrew _ .”

Andrew’s answer is a growl. “ _ Who sent you _ .” It isn’t a question as much as it is a statement—somehow Neil’s already been judged and found guilty. 

“No one,” Neil gasps. The feeling of Andrew’s arm against his neck is an uncomfortable one, and he’s distinctly aware of the fact it would be too easy for the werewolf to kill him. “No one sent me.”

Andrew doesn’t seem reassured (judged and found  _ lacking _ ). “If you were sent by the Moriyama's I will send you back to them in  _ pieces _ ,” he threatens. His features are almost completely wolfish, now, and Neil knows that if Andrew turns fully he won’t be able to escape. 

Thinking fast, he kicks Andrew on his stomach, then before the werewolf can react he hits his own forehead against Andrew’s nose. He smells, more than sees, the blood—and then he runs. 

  
  


He doesn’t really know where he’s going to, which direction is safe. Everything about the city seems like a distant dream, a whimsical memory he built in his mind to be greater than reality. It can’t have been good if this is how it ends—and that’s what he needs to tell himself in order to keep his feet moving. 

His heart is beating fast, adrenaline pumping, breath coming out in angry huffs. His thoughts are a little fuzzy—he’s trying to think of nothing beyond  _ run _ ,  _ escape _ ,  _ hide _ . If he thinks of anything else, he might just stop and go back. 

Too late, he realizes he’s in the woods surrounding the town—the same one the old lady told him to avoid. Neil doesn’t hear any footsteps, doesn’t hear much noise at all, which is when he stops (just to catch his breath).

He keeps blindly blundering on, a minute or two later. Slower, this time. There’s the familiar sting of cuts on his arms, on his legs—it’s night and he can’t really see in the dark, even if the moon is still almost full—and he hasn’t drank anything today beyond two sips of the drugged soda. He’s thirsty. He’s tired. He’s scared and panicking and unsure of what to do. He doesn’t want to go back to being nothing. 

There’s a clearing just in front of him, and Neil just… stumbles upon it. He looks around, eyes wide—the woods are still silent,  _ too silent _ —which is when he sees it. The shack. The  _ ruins _ . The burned-to-a-crisp remains of what was once probably a wooden cabin. Neil feels the overpowering scent of smoke, again, he hears horses and fire and a woman screaming. He thinks he screams along—he can feel the vibrations on his throat.

When he stops, he realizes he’s laying on the floor—and there’s the shape of a woman standing just beside him, hunched down above him with worried, otherworldly eyes. She has long, white hair and pale, translucent skin. The air around her has a blue-ish tint to it that makes her look slightly blurry.

Neil blinks.

The ghost says: “You must be Nathaniel,” and Neil notices her voice sounds scratchy, but clear. Neil shakes his head.

“I haven’t been Nathaniel for a while, now.” The honesty feels foreign on his tongue, but here—without anyone else to hear him but the dead—he doesn’t feel like lying; he thinks it might be safe to let out the truth. “I go by Neil, but it isn’t who I am, either.”

“Who are you, then?” She asks, and her voice is gentle. Neil sits, and the ghost sits in front of him—legs not touching the ground. Her hair sways gently under the wind, though there is none. 

Neil sighs. “No one, I am no one.”

“Everyone is something to someone.” She cocks her head to the side.

Neil shakes his head again. “I was a son. I was her pack. Now I’m neither.”

“Death doesn’t destroy the bonds of blood.” The ghost’s voice is sad. “You are still her son, even if she isn’t here.”

Neil feels like crying. “I miss her.”

“I know,” the ghost says. There’s a minute of silence when nothing is heard but Neil’s own breathing. Then there’s a soft buzzing on his ear, persistent. It’s not an insect: he recognizes magic.

“What are you doing here, Neil?” she asks.

He looks around, instead of answering. The woods are still the same, though something has changed. The air feels stale. The cabin is intact.

“Escaping.” Neil tells her as he gets up. The ghost watches as he explores his surroundings, as he tries to touch one of the cabin’s walls and his hand goes through. 

“It’s not really here, as I am not really here—but in spirit.” Neil turns to look at her and she’s standing again, eyes unfocused. Lost on a memory, perhaps. “No one else could see the cabin before.”

“What happened?” Neil is curious despite himself. He enters the cabin through the wall and looks around: tiny glass vials with colorful liquids in the kitchen, herbs everywhere, a table with a book opened on a recipe—a potion for good health.

The ghost comes in through the door. “I tired of running, so I stopped.”

“They burnt you,” Neil realizes. The ghost nods. She caresses the book softly, fingers brushing over the sentences. When she looks back at Neil, there are tears on her eyes.

“I was a witch,” her voice wavers. “They didn’t trust me. They thought I was doing the devil’s work, even if all I wanted to do was  _ help _ them. So they burnt me, yes. And I  _ burnt _ . God, did I burn.” She pauses. Neil thinks of smoke and screams, of his mother and parallels, of a supernatural creature’s ultimate fate (death). “But I also made sure no one else would ever have to burn, and die, and run.”

She starts moving towards the next room and Neil follows her. It’s a bedroom—a well-lived bedroom, with a huge straw bed and an empty, wooden crib. She rocks the crib, then sits on the bed. Neil can almost hear the creaking, but not quite. “The wards around the town—they’re mine. My spirit powers them. As long as I remain, no human with harmful intentions shall ever be able to find the people within; all they’ll see is charred buildings and my statue on the center.”  

She turns to Neil. “You’ll be safe inside.”

Neil shakes his head. Everything he ever wanted is here, within his reach, and he can feel it slipping between his fingers.

“I can’t stay—Andrew won’t let me.”

“He will,” she says, she  _ insists _ . “If he trusts you.”

He thinks of being trained to kill a werewolf in his sleep, he thinks of being told to lie as confidently as he comments the weather, he thinks of being built on untruth on top of untruth—like jenga (if you touch one the wrong way, they  _ drop _ ). Neil’s smile is humourless when he looks back at the ghost. “He shouldn’t.”

“Maybe you should let him decide that,” she says. She slides her hand through the air on a wide gesture, and it’s as if a dome is lifted—the air is no long stale. The buzzing is gone. The walls on the cabin slowly fade away, until Neil and the ghost are standing at the center of the charred remains.

At the very edge of the clearing—leaning his weight against a tree, eyes still eerily red—stands Andrew, arms crossed. He walks in, all grace and danger, footsteps barely making any noise. There’s a fillet of dry blood under his nose, still.

“Bee,” Andrew says as soon as he approaches them, though he doesn’t quite cross it all the way. The ghost—Bee—moves to stand between Neil and Andrew, but when neither of them make a violent move, she approaches Andrew, feet never touching the ground.

She stops in front of him, a motherly look on her face (motherly in a way Mary herself could never be) and her hand hovers a hair's width away from Andrew’s skin. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and she uses her thumb to clean away the blood.

Neil takes the time to watch Andrew, now that he knows what ( _ who _ ) he is. Now that he knows there’s a beast lurking just inside his skin—now that he sees the strength, the agility, the  _ control _ . 

This man isn’t feral.

Neil’s  _ seen _ feral. He’s  _ killed _ feral. He’s fed it and watched it and told it stories when it was the full moon and they kept rattling their cages, howling away their pain. Feral werewolves have no control whatsoever, they don’t know how strong they are, they can’t recognize friend from foe.

“I shall let the two of you talk,” the ghost says. Her hand touches Andrew’s shoulder, gently, and then she’s gone—Neil and Andrew remain.

There’s a whole minute of silence, where neither of them move. Neil considers turning around and walking away, just to see what Andrew will do, but he doesn’t want to give up this town and it seems like he can’t have the town without Andrew’s agreement.

So he sits down.

And tells Andrew  _ everything _ .

There’s no judgment, no horror, no comments. Andrew takes everything in with a nod of his head and a bored demeanour, eyes fixed on his face. By the time Neil’s done—empty and emotionally exhausted, ready to be told he’s too dangerous to stay—Andrew offers him his hand.

“Make a deal with me.”


End file.
